


A Thin Line

by NorthernLights37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Absolute fucking crack, But are unapologetic about their asshole tendencies, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, I don't even know why I did this, It's crack it's definitely not that deep, Jon and Dany are both assholes, Last warning they're both shitheads in this, Light Bondage, Modern AU, Modern-Day Westeros, Really they are the worst, Shitheads who eventually fall in love, Very competitive Jon and Dany, and co-workers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25449796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: ...between love and hate.Dany and Jon explore that boundary.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 138
Kudos: 690





	1. The Devil You Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Magali_Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/gifts).



> Look, this occurred to me last night and I was like man it would be fucking fun to write a fic in which Jon and Dany are just absolute assholes in the enemies to lovers area of the sandbox, so you know what? I did it. And I'm not sorry.
> 
> And neither are Jon and Dany, two assholes who belong together.
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys really, really wishes Jon Snow would go die in a fucking fire, already.

  
The first time she meets Jon Snow, she’s striding into the conference room, glaring, head held high. She can’t stand these stupid fucking meetings, has far more pressing things to do, but she pastes on a cool, civil smile and walks to the front table, where she always sits.

Except, today, her seat is taken, and as the occupant turns his head at the sound of her approach, she fights back a gasp.

He’s hot, this interloper. Nice suit, custom-tailored by the looks of it. Expensive silk tie. She can see the glint of cuff links as he reaches for the paper cup of coffee beside him. She glances down, noting the very costly leather dress shoes he wears. Not bad, she thinks, and sniffs.

But he’s in her seat.

“Excuse me,” she says, adding a note of flirting to her voice as she arches a brow. That usually does the trick. He has the sort of cocky, arrogant aura she’s encountered plenty at bars and conferences, the kind that will do anything to curry favor with her, hoping to wind up inside her at some point. “You’re in my seat.”

He takes a long look at her, then, from her own very expensive heels, just the right height to make her ass look fabulous in the pencil skirt she’s wearing, the smartly-cut jacket that matches, the perfectly coiffed silver-blonde hair she’s arranged into a french twist, the outrageously expensive diamonds on her ears. He settles on her red lips for several heartbeats, then gives her something that’s less a smile and more a sneer.

“Guess it’s my seat now,” he says, clearly, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

Then he winks at her, and she’s never, ever wanted to punch someone so much in her entire life. She clears her throat, as the room grows hushed, ready to verbally rip this asshole to pieces, when Tyrion enters.

He spares her a glance, then gestures to the several empty seats that remain. “Sit down, Daenerys, and let’s get started.”

Gods, she wants to argue, wants to point out to her boss that she’d very much like to sit. In her seat. Half the people in this room are terrified of her, have witnessed her eviscerate any idiot unwise enough to piss her off, and now this jackass is poised to ruin all that.

The other half hate her because she’s fucked them over at some point; Snaked clients away, pounced on leads before they could, that sort of thing. It’s a cutthroat world, and she has no interest in playing nice. She’s got money to make, period, end of sentence, and if she has to step on toes to achieve the success she craves, well, that’s what she’ll continue to do.

Tyrion is staring at her, and so she begrudgingly takes a seat at the table just behind the asshole who’s stolen her seat, glaring so hard at the back of his dark head that she prays it will catch on fire.

“First order of business, I’d like to introduce Jon Snow to everyone. We were able to poach him from a competitor, and, well, as I’m sure you’ll discover, his sales speak for themselves. I think he’ll be a great addition to our little family, so let’s make sure we do our very best to bring him into the Lannister fold, yes?” Tyrion gives her a knowing look as he speaks, and this ‘Jon Snow’ gives a jaunty little wave, his smile only growing wider when he meets her eyes again and sees the scowl on her face.

She grits her teeth and chokes down a sip of the shitty office coffee she’s carried in.

She fucking HATES Jon Snow. She’s sure of it.

\------------

Two months in, and her absolute distaste of their newest salesman only grows.

She doesn’t know how he found out, but he’s now taken TWO contracts that she had due for renewal, had already gotten their first when she calls to schedule her annual meeting with the clients in question.

Someone’s helping him and frankly, it could be anyone.

And she’s pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose.

She goes to the break room one afternoon, a momentary respite from the sales pitch she’s been knee-deep in for a new, multimillion dollar deal, when she feels a presence behind her. She bangs her hand on her selection and grabs the can of diet soda, slowly turning to find the man who has quickly become her arch nemesis standing there, arms crossed, toe tapping impatiently.

“About time,” he mutters, as she goes to walk away, sparing him a narrow-eyed look, and it stops her in her tracks.

“What was that?” The venom in her voice is clear, but for whatever reason, Jon Snow has proven impervious to it. From the corner of her eye she can see that everyone is watching them now, and she lifts her head, haughty, waiting.

“I said,” he proclaimed loudly, stepping forward and inserting a bill into the machine, “It’s about fucking time. Maybe you can linger here all day but some of us have work to do, Princess.”

Gods, she wants to hit him, to wipe that smug little smile off his face. He’s making a scene and he knows it, and she thinks she would love nothing more than to come to work in the morning and hear that a sinkhole swallowed his car whole as he drove home.

“This ‘small dick energy’,” she says, waving her hand in his general direction, smirking, “is really unbecoming, Jon Snow. Just so you know.” She’s said similar things, the very notion enough to almost make Theon Greyjoy cry. She’s assumed that it must’ve been true, and has also assumed that someone like Jon Snow acts like such a monumental douche bag because he suffers from something similar, must be compensating for something. The overpriced sports car he drives is another big clue, and she smiles in satisfaction as she watches the insult land.

But then, to her chagrin, he laughs, a full-throated thing, and scratches at his jaw before he leans over to grab his drink. “How much time would you say you spend thinking about my dick every day, Daenerys?”

Fuck, she wishes she knew where he lived so she could set his house on fire. It would feel so, so satisfying.

“You wish,” she grits out, and stomps away to the sound of his laugh in her ear.

Gods, she fucking HATES JON SNOW.

\-----------

She’s sitting in her corner office, absolutely delirious with the very particular kind of joy that accompanies a massive deal being closed, with the extra flavor of fucking someone over while she did it.

Daenerys runs a hand over her laptop, squirming happily in her seat, ready to fire off an email to Tyrion crowing about her victory when her door slams open.

Jon Snow barges in, angrier than she’s ever seen him, and fuck, it really just makes her giddy.

“You bitch!” The hissed insult makes her grin. “I can’t fucking believe you.”

She tuts at him, trying desperately not to laugh. “Oh dear,” she says sweetly. “What seems to be the problem? Car trouble, perhaps?”

She hates him, yes, with the heat of a thousand suns, but she isn’t blind. He’s objectively hot, most days, but there’s something extra alluring about the way his chest is heaving and his hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides as he glares at her. What a waste, she thinks. In other circumstances she’d probably fuck him ‘til his eyes crossed, but she knows it’s very likely true that she hates him too much to ever allow anything like that to occur.

“Where are my fucking sparkplugs?” His voice has lowered, now a low, rumbling growl, a snarl on his face.

She opens her top right drawer, and reaches in, dropping the requested items onto her desktop. “You mean _these_ sparkplugs? I just found them lying around, you know. You should be more careful with your things.”

She had absolutely no regrets for sabotaging his car that morning. He’d been planning on getting this contract, she knew, thanks to a tip off from Missy in Admin. So, she’d made sure he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere today, and she’d gotten there first.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He’s shaking with anger, now, and finally, finally she’s gotten under his skin, and it’s absolutely delicious.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I assumed vehicles were fair game,” she croons, leaning back in her leather chair and crossing her arms. “Considering you let the air out of ALL my tires, oh, what was it?” She raises her brows at him. “Two weeks ago, isn’t that right?”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, she sees, because he knows what he did. Jon Snow doesn’t get a high horse today. “This isn’t over,” he finally mutters, one last hateful glare in her direction before he storms out as quickly as he arrived, sparkplugs in hand.

She straightens, and sighs, and hums merrily under her breath as she begins to compose her message to Tyrion.

In all, it’s been an excellent day.

\-----------

When Tyrion calls them both into his office, six months after Jon Snow infected her life with his shitty smug smile and asshole tendencies, she wants to scream. She can’t even stand being seated next to him.

And now, Tyrion’s gotten a lead on a massive deal, and has decided he wants her to make some sort of unholy alliance with Satan himself.

“This could be big for us,” Tyrion explains, looking between the two of them, “and I want my best two salespeople on it.”

Gods, she wants to jump off the top of the building. She’d rather be forced to make out with Kevan and his wallpaper-melting halitosis than work with Jon. She’s certain he feels the same. She eyes the letter opener on Tyrion’s desk as Jon Snow shifts beside her, and idly wonders how messy it would be, if she just stabbed him and put him out of his misery.

She’s about to tell Tyrion that it’s not necessary, that she can handle this sale alone, when she’s cut off.

“Sounds good, Boss,” Jon says, with a cheer that she knows is fake. It’s so saccharine-sweet she wants to gag. He’s such a kiss-ass, one of his many, many character flaws. “I’m sure Daenerys and I will make a great team. Right, Daenerys?” She feels her jaw clench as she ticks her head to the side to look at him, his eyes full of false innocence and eagerness. How can one man be such a douche so consistently?

And now he’s pinned her in, put her in a position to look like the asshole by disagreeing, and she sees something twinkle in his ridiculous gray eyes when he sees that she knows.

She forces a smile to her lips, and turns back to Tyrion. “Oh, I think we’ll knock it out of the park, Tyrion.” She’s grabbed the arm of the chair so tightly her knuckles are turning white. “Can’t wait!”

It isn’t until they’re in the corridor, away from prying ears, that she wheels on him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “What the fuck was that?”

He scoffs, and brushes her hand away from him, annoyed. “What, the part where I agree to work with _you_ to nail down my biggest commission of the year? I know you’re evil incarnate, Daenerys, but I didn’t think you were stupid.”

She is trembling with rage. There has never, ever been a human being she has hated this much. It consumes her entire mind. Sometimes, it’s all she can think about, how to push his buttons further, maybe get him to quit. That would be an amazing accomplishment, if she can manage it.

“Don’t fuck this up, asshole.” She pushes past him, heading for the elevator, when his reply reaches her ears.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.”

When the doors close, and she doesn’t have to see his sneering face anymore, it’s a sweet relief.

————

They fly to Highgarden, and she’s thankful that at least he shoves headphones on the minute they’re seated together in business class. At least he has the courtesy not to prattle the entire time. Normally she would take a pill and sleep, because she hates flying, but she doesn’t trust the shithead next to her. Gods only knew what he would get up to if she was helpless and unconscious next to him.

If the rumors were true he’d already worked his way through half the women in the building anyway. Fucking lech.

She rolls her eyes, and then closes them for take-off, controlling her breathing, not willing to let him see a weakness.

They check into the hotel, after landing, exchanging as few words as possibly, and she’s beginning to think that this situation might be manageable. She sets up her laptop and connects to the hotel wi-fi, reviewing the presentation she’s put together for the next day, when her cell rings.

She doesn’t recognize the number, but it’s a King’s Landing area code, so she answers.

And immediately regrets it when Jon Snow’s arrogant voice is in her ear. He doesn’t even say ‘Hello’, clearly incapable of the most basic of polite overtures, just immediately begins barking orders.

“I’m in room 324. If you plan on actually closing this sale tomorrow, you need to come by to go over what I’ve put together.”

She holds the phone away from her face for a moment, frowning at it so heavily she’s worried her face might freeze like that, then incredulously puts it back to her ear. “Excuse me? I’m currently reviewing the presentation I have put together, one that might actually work. I have very little interest into whatever pathetic display you’ve put together. I’m in 320. Feel free to drop by, unless you plan on having me do all the heavy lifting in the morning.”

“Fucking hells,” he mumbles, and she can hear his aggravation through the tinny connection. It makes her feel all warm and cozy, really, to piss him off. It’s truly one of life’s greatest pleasures, she’s found. “Fine,” he says shortly. He calls her a bitch under his breath before the call disconnects, and she grins.

Less than a minute later he’s knocking at the door, and she lets him in unceremoniously, giving only cursory notice that he’s wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans. She’s never seen him outside of his impeccable suits before, and it’s jarring. She’s still wearing slacks and a blouse, having focused on preparing before she changed, and she rolls her eyes and waves for him to take a seat in the uncomfortable armchair beside the sofa she’s camped out on.

He grunts at her in greeting, just barely flicking his eyes to hers, and holds out a hand for her laptop while passing over his own. “Let’s see what disaster you’ve got ready for us,” he says dryly, and begins to page through her slides while she does the same with his.

It isn’t terrible, what he’s composed, better than she expected, and her face is wrinkling in disgust because she was fully prepared to laugh him out of this room, and now she can’t. Already, in her head, she’s thinking of ways to merge their content, finding spots she could work in the material she’s got, ways to improve the pitch.

She crows in delight when she spots a few typos, and slowly rolls her eyes to where he sits, frowning at the screen of her laptop, a lone, long finger tapping at the button to advance the slides every so often.

“Messy work, Snow,” she says, grinning as she hands his laptop back. “But maybe it will be manageable. With my far superior content added, of course. And all your terrible mistakes fixed.”

Very slowly, in a supremely controlled manner that puts her on high alert, he leans forward and sets her laptop on the glass tabletop. He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing slowly, in and out. “Do you think,” he finally grinds out, “you could manage not to be such an insufferable bitch for like, five minutes?”

She hoots out a laugh, clapping her hands together gleefully. “Nope,” she says simply. “I enjoy nothing more than making you miserable. Which shouldn’t surprise you, since you seem to take great satisfaction in being the world’s biggest asshole. I mean, it’s really an accomplishment. You should get a lifetime achievement award.”

He stares at her so long, his eyes so hard, that she thinks that maybe, finally, she’s crossed the line. She’s taken a perverse enjoyment out of their intense dislike for each other, gotten comfortable in it, but he has a wild look to him that is new, and a bit alarming.

And most disturbingly, it’s very, very arousing.

Don’t think about THAT, she chides herself, waiting, watching, to see what he will do. If it’s a screaming match he wants, she’s always ready for that. She’s got lots of insults prepared for him that she’s just been waiting to try out.

“I really fucking hate you,” he finally says, his voice ominously quiet. His hand is twitching as he stands and comes dangerously close, sits far too near for her liking. She shifts away, not sure what to make of the angry, predatory look in his eyes.

But she won’t be cowed, not by him. She leans forward, suddenly, getting in his face as closely as she dares. “I hate you more. I promise you.” She knows how she sounds, vicious and confident, and she narrows her eyes staring him down. “I have never hated a single living person the way I hate you, and that’s saying a lot, Jon Snow. You’re really the King of the Assholes.”

“You are the most evil, frigid bitch I’ve ever met in my life. Just when I think you can’t go any lower, you do. I can’t think of a single person in our entire office who actually likes you, you know that?” He huffs out a humorless laugh, his face now so close that his hot breath puffs across her parted lips. She can’t even see the gray of his eyes anymore, his pupils so wide and dark that his angry stare is an inky black.

She’s so turned on by this she can’t think straight, and in the back of her mind she realizes how fucked up that is, but he’s so close to her that it’s making her crazy. “You think I fucking care about being liked? I’m there to make money, not friends, dipshit.”

He presses his lips together, tight, and is on the verge of delivering another stinging, snippy little comment, but something takes her over then. The urge to kiss him, hard, to fucking shut him up once and for all, is too much to fight, and she’s crawling in his lap, grabbing his face between two hands, too tightly, and she crushes her mouth to his before he can speak.

If this is what it takes to finally silence his wicked tongue she’ll do it.

For a second, he freezes, and she kisses him harder, her tongue lashing at his closed lips, demanding entrance. Then he groans, his chest rumbling against hers, and gives in, kissing her with a skill that makes her glad she’s sitting, her knees turning rubbery, her cunt already slick with want as she grinds down on his lap.

There’s nothing nice about it. They bite at each other, in turns, his hand at the back of her neck in an instant, forcing her head to his, keeping her captive to his assault.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she gasps out, the minute he breaks for air. She bites at the skin of his neck, moaning aloud when she feels his cock hard and insistent against her through his jeans. “I still hate you. So fucking much.” She licks along his throat, her hands fumbling with his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head.

“Likewise,” he mutters, then yanks at her blouse with both hands, ruining it, making her scowl in frustration, even as she shivers. His eyes are glued to her barely-concealed tits, his hands already searching for the clasp of her red, lacy bra, when she hisses her complaint.

“That was expensive, asshole,” she growls at him.

“You can afford it,” he bites back, then her tits are in his hands, and she can’t speak at all, because fuck, it feels good, the way he’s twisting and pulling at her hard nipples, his touch anything but gentle, his mouth hot and wet as he begins to glut himself on her sensitive flesh.

She grabs for his head, pulling hard as his hair, forcing his head to remain right where it is as she cries out at the sensation. “Oh, fuck,” she moans, and she feels him smile against her as he switches sides, her abandoned breast slick with his saliva and glistening in the cold air of the hotel room, begging for more of his attention.

She hates him a little more, in that moment, for the way he’s made her want him.

Dany rakes her nails down his chest, marvelling at how solid he is, how chiselled he feels beneath her hands. He must work out all the time, the vain prick. She wants to see all of him, then, and she reaches between their bodies as he continues his assault on her chest, her eyes slamming shut when he bites down on her left nipple, his tongue tracing over it right after, then he does it again.

Gods, it’s just right.

“Take off your fucking clothes,” she manages, panting far too hard, feeling too vulnerable at what he’s stirring inside her. She slides her hand fully against the length of his cock, enjoys the way he stutters and groans, deep in his chest, releasing her with a wet pop to glare up at her.

“You’re so fucking bossy,” he says, but now it’s hard to tell if he’s really angry or just insanely turned on. She finds she is a strange mix of both, and he stands, smoothly, urging her thighs around his waist even as he glares at her, carrying her to the bed and tossing her down on it.

By the time he works her slacks and skimpy panties down her thighs she’s embarrassingly wet, and when he slides one hand up her now-bare thigh, the other working free the fly of his jeans, he realizes it, as well.

“Oh, my,” he chuckles darkly. “What have we here?”

“Shut _up_ ,” she orders, even as she arches her hips into his touch, craving more contact. He gives it to her, his fingers sliding between her sopping folds, teasing against her clit.

When he pulls his hand away she curses, and her eyes are narrow slits as she watches him, frowning, but then he slips his fingers into his mouth, tasting her, and her chest begins to heave. Fuck, she hates him, but she’s never wanted anyone more in her life.

“Now, now, Daenerys,” he croons, shoving his jeans and underwear down and kicking out of them, climbing on the bed beside where she is splayed out for his perusal, his cock finally in view and hard, flushed red and bobbing against his stomach.

He idly strokes himself, and she isn’t too proud to admit that she was wrong about him having small dick energy. He’s long, and thick, and as she watches his hand bob up and down she realizes her mouth is watering with the want to taste him. But she won’t give him that satisfaction, even as she finally looks up and meets his eyes, sees he’s figured out how hungry she is for him.

“See something you like?” He’s so fucking smug it makes her see red, and she bites at her lip enticingly, smoothing her hands along the hotel bedspread, arching her back, endlessly satisfied with the way his eyes follow the movement of her tits. She lets her legs fall further apart, so that he can see everything.

“Do you?” She knows how beautiful men find her, and she’s never had any complaints, nor does she now, as he strokes himself a little faster at the sight. She decides she needs to fight fire with fire, and lets her hand glide down her body, stopping to tease at her own stiff, rosy nipple, moaning at the contact. His brow furrows as he watches her hand travel down her abdomen, to her smooth, bare cunt, and she’s relieved she waxed before she left town. She dips her fingers into her own arousal, begins to work her clit in a well-practiced motion.

She won’t break first. She’ll make him give in.

And he does, yanking her hand free, releasing himself and sliding her fingers into his mouth, licking away her wetness, and she whimpers at the way his tongue roughly slides over each digit. Like a big cat, she thinks, wondering if he’s going to use that tongue elsewhere.

“Condom?”

She points to her makeup bag, on the bedside table, grateful she hadn’t finished unpacking yet.

He finds one, quickly, has it ripped open and rolled onto his impressive dick before even a full minute has passed, then positions himself on his knees between her spread thighs. Maybe it’s due to the way they can’t stand each other, she muses, as he grabs roughly at her thighs, pulls their bodies flush, sliding his cock teasingly against her clit as he watches her like a hawk.

She bites her lip, hard, trying to stifle a needy whine, but fails, and he looks horrifyingly pleased as he slides his cock through the copious wetness at her core, slicking his latex covered erection, then, with a leer, thrusts into her, hard.

Fuck, she can’t see, she can’t think, there is only the searing, stinging pleasure of this, of the way he begins to fuck her, setting up a pounding, relentless rhythm. Sex is usually a rather perfunctory act for her, in three acts: Get in, get off, then get out.

But Gods, the way he’s staring down at her, his lips parted, his breath escaping in a frantic grunt with each push of his cock inside her, she’s never felt this wild, this primal.

Beneath him she becomes an animal, and he follows suit. Soon there is just a frenzy of motion, hands grasping and pulling, just dancing on the edge of too hard, and too much. She scratches at his chest, then his back, knowing she’s probably split the skin, and not caring. He snarls, fucking her even faster, the angle of her hips drawn up onto his knees, the sound of their skin slapping together feverishly, making her race towards a climax that she couldn’t stop, even if she wanted to.

He dips his head to pull harshly at her nipple, his thumb and forefinger replacing his lips and teeth when he needs to breath, tweaking it roughly and grinning madly when she keens and bucks her hips into his even more wildly. She’s so close, and she thinks that possibly she’s going to come harder than she ever has.

“Ah, you fucking asshole,” she cries, digging her nails into his skin, needing more, more, more. “Make me come, dammit!”

The noise he makes is so depraved her eyes roll back in her head, and she’s hanging on for dear life now as he takes her there, fucks her without mercy, forces her to come so hard around him that she swears she sees stars.

And he doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop, just grunts and growls even as her orgasm ebbs.

His face twists in a snarl, and he fixes his thumb just to the side of her clit. “I think you can come again, you spiteful bitch.”

He circles her clit, and then slides his thumb against it, clearly knowing enough not go for a direct assault, as she’s still sensitive from her first peak. But he persists, demanding, as if he’s proving something to her, or maybe just himself.

“Gods, I hate you,” she moans, and then throws her head back, because while she’s never actually had multiple orgasms, even on her own, she’s certain that’s what’s happening now, and the influx of euphoria comes close to making her black out. She comes around him, again, hard, longer this time, and it’s enough to pitch him over the edge right after, his rough cries as his hips stutter against hers so erotic that she’s disturbed by how much she enjoys it.

He rolls off her, finally, wincing as their sweat-soaked bodies stick together, padding naked into her bathroom to dispose of the condom, no doubt.

Daenerys lays gasping, savoring the way this feels, knowing it’s twisted, the way she hates him, the way she craves more.

There’s something liberating it, about the way she wishes he would perish in an earthquake, while wishing at the same time that she could fuck him every day for the rest of her life. It makes it even hotter, what they did, she thinks, as she hums contentedly. Hating him lets her fuck with abandon.

She hears him return, pushes up on her elbows as she opens her eyes, and for a long, odd moment they just stare at each other.

“Email me your presentation,” she mutters, and collapses back on the bed, “and get out of my room.”

The last thing she needs is for him to get all weird, now. It was just sex. Really great, amazing, mind-blowing hate-fucking. Top-notch stuff, she decides, and cracks her eyes open to see him pulling on his clothes, completely unaffected, wholly full of that insufferable cockiness she’s always detested.

“Gladly,” he chuckles, and eyes her once more before he turns and leaves.

She doesn’t watch him go.

\----------

They make the sale.

She doesn’t know who is more surprised, really. But oddly enough, they make a great team when placed in front of a client. Maybe it’s their shared goal, a six figure commission, even when split two ways.

Maybe it was the fucking. She shrugs to herself as they leave the highrise, already planning what she’ll buy first as he hails a cab. They don’t speak, not for awhile, as they are shuttled to the airport, and finally he breaks the silence.

“That went well,” she finally says, her eyes on her phone, texting Tyrion the good news.

He yawns, as though bored, and when she glances up he’s staring out the car window as the city passes by. “Thanks to me,” he says snidely, and she’s relieved, really. He is still the egotistical asshole she hates. The tiny ball of dread that had begun to form, since last night, dissipates, her worry that he’d start trying to worm his way back into her bed or, Gods forbid, expecting her to be nice to him vanishing along with the morning haze that blankets the city.

“Go fuck yourself,” she quips, and they don’t speak for the rest of the ride.

\----------

Tyrion is so overjoyed at their success that the following month he sends them on another sales call, this time to Riverrun.

She’s already annoyed that he seems to want to make this a regular thing, and Jon’s shitty attitude at the news, once they leave Tyrion’s office, only pushes her further into full-on aggravation.

He’s disgruntled, and he seems intent on making sure she knows it, glaring at her solidly as they ride the lift to the floor they’re both officed out of, huffing at her when she stares right back.

“This time,” he bites out, “let’s just prepare in the hotel bar.”

She wrinkles her face, wondering what he’s implying. Surely he doesn’t think she wants to fuck him again. That was a one-time thing. She hadn’t eased up on him, since they’d been back, still sabotaging him whenever she could, and he returned the favor as often as he could manage.

She still hates him.

And she’ll never ever admit to anyone, especially him, that since that night in Highgarden she gets herself off to the memory of the way he’d fucked her. She’ll never give him the satisfaction.

“Fine by me,” she says coldly, and leaves before he can say another word, as the doors part.

\----------

He’s been growing his hair out, and been keeping it tucked back and away from his sinful face in the most ridiculous, pretentious man bun she’s ever seen.

“You look like an aging hipster,” she snarks at him over drinks, as she reviews his notes. “Is that a choice you’ve knowingly made?”

He grins at her, or maybe he’s just baring his teeth. She isn’t sure, and she doesn’t particularly care. “Now that I know it bothers you, I’ll make sure I let it go a couple more inches.” She rolls her eyes and he leans back in the high-backed barstool, looking supremely satisfied.

“Like I give a shit about your hair.”

She tucks away the notecards in her portfolio and waves a hand to the bartender, signaling another drink with a point of her finger before she turns back to him. The way he’s looking at her, in the low light, makes her wet.

She hates him, she reminds herself. But she thinks she’d like to fuck him again.

His lips quirk, and he gathers his things, leaving some bills on the bar and nodding to the bartender. She scrambles, because they aren’t done, not by half. Is he really going to turn tail and run? Just when she was getting warmed up?

“Where are you going?” 

He doesn’t even look back as he walks away. “Away from you,” he calls over his shoulder, and this time she does watch him leave, watches the way his dress slacks hug his ass as he moves, thinks for not the first time that it ought to be a crime for a shitheel like Jon Snow to have an ass like _that_.

She frowns into her fresh bourbon and coke, and takes a large gulp, savoring the burn. He’s not getting away that easily.

\---------

Daenerys knows what room he’s in, knows they’re on the same floor, just a few rooms down from each other, again.

She hates what she’s about to do, but it doesn’t stop her. She doesn’t even falter as she showers off the dirt and grime she feels from travelling, pins her hair up so that it reveals the long line of her pale neck, and wraps herself in a hotel robe.

She shoves her keycard in her pocket, and leaves, taking a steadying breath when she comes to stand before his door. Then she knocks.

He answers so quickly that she thinks he must have been standing there, waiting, peering through the little peephole trying to catch a glimpse of her. But whatever satisfaction she takes from that thought is erased by his slow, lazy smile as he leans against the door jamb, the worst sort of awareness in his eyes as he examines her.

“Just couldn’t resist, huh?” He gestures up and down his body, the thin pajama pants doing little to hide how he’s already growing hard in anticipation.

She doesn’t answer, just pushes past him into the darkness of his room, lit only by the tv that is playing silently in the corner. She’s not going to allow him to presume this is one-sided, when he knows full well he wants her, too.

Dany toys with the tie of her robe, and gives him a little pout, turns on the wide, innocent eyes. “I’m superstitious,” she whispers, then comes closer, trailing a finger down his cotton t-shirt. “What can I say?”

He gives her a look so hungry, so carnal, that she knows he has been as starved for this as she has, and her body responds immediately, nipples drawing tight and stiff, her cunt grower slicker with each breath she takes.

“I’m not going to go easy on you,” he rasps, grabbing for the belt of her robe and pulling her flush against him.

“I should fucking hope not,” she says, knowing he will hear the demand in her voice, know that all she wants his for him to pour all that intensity into her, needs it like she needs air. She certainly won’t say it out loud.

And as he gives her what she wants, what they both want, as he bends her over the cheap motel sofa, pinning her hands to the wall and fucking her from behind, making her come in a wail so loud she thinks they’ll get complaints, she wonders how long they can keep this up.

She’s started to need this, need him, and she hates him for it.

\----------

A few weeks after another successful trip she’s leaving for the night, dropping off new contracts to be faxed and striding through the parking lot when she sees him.

He’s sitting on a bench against the building, one of the low cement ones, surrounded by the ugly orange halo of the security light. He’s on the phone, and his head is in his hands, and yes, she hates him, but she isn’t a monster, and it doesn’t take a genius to see he’s upset.

Dany lingers, just outside the line of light, until he hangs up, waits for silence to fall and last before she approaches. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge she’s there, just stares, numbly, into the distance.

“What’s your problem?” she asks, gentler than her usual, but still not especially friendly. She doesn’t care, really, but she’s not without a trace of care.

He lets out a heavy, defeated sigh, shakes his head. “Not now, Dany.”

She starts, because he’s never called her that before, no one has, not for a long, long time. But she doesn’t scold him, because he’s obviously very upset, and while she usually treasures these times it’s because _she’s_ been the architect of his suffering. Today that is not the case.

“Out with it,” she orders, and fishes around in her purse, finding the cigarettes she swears she gave up a year ago, and a tiny lighter hidden in a pocket, taking one for herself then handing him the pack. She’s seen him gnawing on nicotine gum on more than one occasion, but she’s had enough of her own trials to know how good that first drag is going to taste.

He takes it, finally, tapping the pack against his hand and taking a smoke, then finagling the lighter from her.

They smoke, silently, surrounded by the thick, acrid smell of it, when he finally talks. “I had to put my dog down today.”

She hates the way her heart clenches, the pity she feels for him, that she feels anything at all. She clears her throat. “Did you have him long?”

He still won’t look at her. He exhales a fresh cloud of smoke and rubs at his temple. “Fourteen years. Probably the only thing in this world that gave a shit about me, if I’m being honest.” There’s real sadness in his voice, and he’s been right, this whole time, that she is an asshole. She knows that, she owns it, she’s proud of it. She’ll step on anyone to get to the top. But she put down Drogon, her old black tomcat, a creature as mean and ornery as herself, two years ago.

It’s not something she’d wish on anyone, even her worst enemy. And that’s what Jon Snow is, that’s the box she’s put him in, that is where he’ll stay.

So she lays a hand on his knee. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, and she means it.

He stares at her, eyes glittering, indecipherable. “I don’t need your fucking pity.” He shifts his leg away, his face growing hard. “No need to start behaving like a decent human being now. Might ruin your reputation.”

She’s about to snarl at him and take it all back, but she sees the little, tiny smirk that crosses his face, knows what he’s doing, now. Maybe hating her is the distraction he needs, she thinks, and she fights her own in return as she stands and stubs out her cigarette. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, Snow. You’re still the biggest asshole I know.”

He blows a cloud of smoke right at her grins with malice as she waves it away and flips him off. “That’s more like it,” he says, as she walks away.

She hates him, but not as much as she should. She laughs the whole way home, because it’s all so delightedly fucked up, when she thinks about it.

So she doesn’t think about it at all.

Because, now and forever, she hates Jon Snow.

\------------

They continue like this for a year, but things do shift, and change. They always do, she figures, as she dresses to meet him in the lobby for dinner. Sometimes they do this, eat together, have some drinks, but inevitably they’ll end up right where they always do: fucking each other’s brains out.

So far, it’s been successful, and they haven’t lost a sale yet. And last time around, when he’d knocked at her door with a bottle of whiskey and his shirt already unbuttoned, he’d just shrugged as he passed and proclaimed, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!’.

She was inclined to agree.

She adjusts the hem of her slinky black dress, smiling at her reflection at the amount of cleavage she was showing. She leans close to the mirror, touching up her lipstick, giggling to herself at the reaction she knew she’d get.

He’d be lucky if he made it through appetizers before he dragged her to the elevators.

Gods, it was fun to drive him crazy. She absolutely adored it, loved making him wild with the need to fuck her into oblivion.

She gasps aloud, and stares at herself, and begins to hyperventilate.

No. No, no she didn’t just think that, she urges, as she stares at her own panicked reflection. She didn’t think it, she didn’t.

But she’s never been good at lying to herself, and now it’s herself that she hates, and she shakes her head, disgusted at the woman in the mirror, for being such a fucking fool.

She doesn’t hate Jon Snow, she thinks, as she sinks down onto the upholstered stool in front of the bathroom vanity. Not even a little, not at all.

Gods, he’s a preening, selfish asshole, and so fucking unbearable sometimes. So smug, and self-righteous, so sure he’s always right.

But he’s all she can think about now. All she’s been able to think about for months. She has to stop lying to herself, she realizes. Because she’s just like him, and maybe that’s why she can’t resist him. They’re so horrid, she thinks, that maybe they were made for each other. She laughs, helpless, because she doesn’t know what else to do.

She’s in love with Jon Snow. How could she have let this happen?

“Fuck.” Her whisper seems to echo around the room.

\-----------

She finally makes it down to the dining room, sits across from him and for once she can’t keep up. She’s distracted, nodding absently, agreeing without knowing when he implies that the top salesman slot will be his in perpetuity and she ought to hang it up and ride off into the sunset.

“Hey.” She’s not used to seeing him look at her with worry, but it’s there, in eyes she’s come to know very well, when he brushes his hand against hers. “What’s going on?”

She’s a wreck, feeling as though she might be sick, her stomach twisting nervously as she crumples her linen napkin around her hand. She grimaces, and then, before she can stop the absolutely stupid thing she’s about to say, it’s out, and now she’s _sure_ she’s going to vomit.

“I don’t hate you anymore.” She covers her mouth with her hand, as though she thinks she can catch the words and take them back, but it’s too late.

He ducks his head, and chuckles, but when his eyes meet hers again, there’s something new then, and suddenly he looks terrified. But he’s resigned, as well, and that edgy little tone he likes to take with her is absent when he finally replies. “Yeah,” he says slowly, eyes never leaving hers, pinning her in place, “I don’t hate you anymore, either.”

“Oh,” she breathes out, and she feels lost, and she hates this feeling more than anything.

“Oh,” he agrees, and nods, his jaw working overtime as an awkward silence falls. Still, his lips twitch. “I probably haven’t for awhile now.”

Her breath rushes out, and he’s being honest, so she thinks she can, too. She owes herself that much. “Me either,” she agrees, and risks a small smile.

Their food arrives, but he pauses before he takes a bite, his gaze dropping to her cleavage, that old familiar hunger gleaming in those dark depths. “But I can’t help but wonder…,” he trails off, and raises his eyes to hers, and licks his lips absently, “What if it’s not the same, if we don’t hate each other?”

She tilts her head, and takes a forkful of food, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “The sex?” He snorts and nods, giving her a skeptical look, as though he can’t believe she’d think of anything else. He has a point, she’s become addicted to thinking about it. “One way to find out,” she says, and gives him the most seductive look she can muster as she takes a sip of wine. “Unless, of course, you’re chicken.”

He stands, immediately, gesturing for the waiter and charging the meal to his room, informing them to box up the food and leave it outside and not to knock, under any circumstances.

“Let’s go,” he says tersely, and she feels her fear replaced by the familiar burn of want, and by the time they reach his room she can only focus on how much she wants his cock inside her. She pushes him against the door, and glares at him.

“Take off your clothes,” she orders, and seats herself in the overstuffed armchair by the crappy little table top desk that extends from the wall. “And do it slowly,” she says, with a raised brow.

“You really are the worst,” he says, but he doesn’t quite mean it. He sounds more teasing than anything, and so she grins, and lowers the strap of her dress.

“I never said I wasn’t willing to negotiate.” She slides her finger across her bare shoulder, then reaches back and flicks the other strap down her arm. He’s got his shirt off and is working on his pants when she manages to tear her eyes away from his body. “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.” She tries to sound aloof as she shrugs. “It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

“Deal,” he says.

\-----------

They’re trying to recover and failing miserably, this time still pressed together, breath rasping out as they stare at each other.

She’s never been more relieved in her entire life, because contrary to his concerns, the sex was still the best she’d ever had. Maybe even better. It was hard to tell because she couldn’t quite remember her name, her cunt sore and satiated, her nipples still aching from his prolonged ministrations.

She was going to have a bruise or two on her ass, she was certain of that. He’d delivered several stinging blows there, while telling her to ride him harder, faster, like she meant it.

She could already see the purpling skin of the spot where she’d bitten him, in return, knowing he was lucky she’d picked a spot that the collar of his dress shirt would hide. They lay, together, slowly coming back to reality, and he picks his head up slowly from where it’s been buried in the sheets. “You hungry?”

She nods, and sits up, stretching a bit, her stomach growling. “Yeah.”

He rummages for a robe in the small bathroom, then goes to the door, a tray waiting for them with their meal from earlier. They don’t say much, but she doesn’t really feel like she needs to. It feels odd and fragile now, this thing between them, the sort of things that might break if they poke at it too much.

So she’ll give it space, and see if it grows. That works for her.

He’s almost done with his steak, his plate in his lap, when he looks at her and smiles. “You wanna stay?”

She shouldn’t, maybe. But she wants to, and so she will. “Alright,” she says, then narrows her eyes at him. “But if you snore I’ll smother you in your sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

He laughs, a real, true laugh, and shakes his head. “Gods, I hate you, Dany,” he says, but that’s not how it sounds, not at all.

She knows what he really means. “I hate you, too.” She knows, when she smiles at him, that it’s a really awful, foolish kind, the lovestruck, mooning sort that should embarrass her. The thing is, though, that she stopped caring what people thought about her a long time ago, anyway. That’s why everyone she works with thinks she’s an asshole.

Jon is definitely one, but he’s her asshole, and maybe that’s enough.

**  
  
  
**


	2. Her Satanic Majesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's POV through the events of Chapter 1.
> 
> His mind might say run away, but his cock strongly disagrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is an asshole here, kids :) Enjoy!

* * *

Jon lives by a certain set of rules, cultivated over the last thirty years of his life. He is a man who learns from his mistakes, ensures he never makes the same one twice.

Rule Number 1: _Never, ever get emotionally involved._

His divorce taught him that lesson well. Some people just aren’t cut out for relationships, and Jon thinks he’s at the top of that list. He can’t bear it, really. The constant demands for attention, the incessant requests to feed someone else’s ego, to assure them that no, they don’t look fat in that dress, and yes, they are so much more beautiful than anyone else in the world, and of course, he can’t imagine his life without them.

Ygritte had made his life a living hell for five whole years, and when he finally filed he felt like he’d been reborn. And thank fucking God he’d started really becoming successful afterwards, because he can only imagine how much it would piss him off to have to send her a single dime of the wealth he’s earned since.

He’d been young, then, convinced by everyone around him that he needed to live his life according to everyone else’s rules. Get married, have kids, live in some shitty little house and drive a hideous minivan and spend the rest of his life miserable in some suburban prison.

But that wasn’t who he was. Maybe it wasn’t who most people were, but most people couldn’t really be honest with themselves. He can, and he does.

He never, ever fucks the same woman twice, and it’s absolutely fantastic. Robb always gives him some shitty, pitying look when he visits, acts like Jon can’t possibly be fulfilled without some boring wife and misbehaving children running around his impeccable loft, ruining his things with sticky fingers.

But that’s not what Jon wants, ever, and he’s not the least bit ashamed of it. He knows who he is, and he is brutally honest with himself.

And that was Rule Number 2: _Be honest about what you want, and do what you have to do to get it._

Jon had been poor most of his life, the unwanted son of a single mother who struggled to put food on the table. She’d never let him forget the burden she thought he was, and in retrospect, he owed her for that.

Because that bitter taste in his mouth had spurred him onward, upward, had made him strive to be the absolute fucking best at everything he attempted.

He’s at a point in his life where he can reap the fruits of those labors, where he can sweet talk anyone, anytime, anywhere, and get what he wants, always coming out on top. He’s amazing at his job, hasn’t met a client he couldn’t sway, and that’s exactly why Tyrion Lannister poached him from the pharmaceutical sales firm he dominated in the North.

He’s good at his job because he holds nothing back, will say whatever it takes to close a deal. He isn’t unethical, but he is ruthless, and that’s what makes him the best. If he has to step on someone else’s neck, or burn some bridges along the way, so be it.

Rule Number 3 is his favorite, truthfully: _There’s nothing wrong with being as selfish as you want to be._

He hears it all the time.

Coworkers, his family, his friends, it’s a common refrain. He’s selfish, he’s vain, he’s an asshole.

All probably true, he supposes, as he stares out of the wide, tempered window of his office, eyes studying the King’s Landing skyline as the sun begins to set. But he won’t apologize for who he is, won’t stop living the best way he knows how. He’s made himself who he is, on his own, and anyone who doesn’t like it can fuck off.

He grins and swivels back to face his desk, tosses a stress ball from one hand to another, when his assistant buzzes.

“Mr. Snow? Mr. Greyjoy is here to see you.”

Jon rolls his eyes. He’d actually been glad, at first, that he knew someone in the City, that he’d be working with someone he’d known since high school.

But Gods, Theon could be an absolute pussy. All he did was whine, and complain, and try to ride the coattails of anyone who would put up with him. Jon had been working for Lannister for three months, now, and his desire to spend any considerable amount of time in Theon’s presence had reached zero.

“Send him in,” Jon says, and immediately begins to wonder how quickly he can get Theon the fuck out of there. He has a little more work to wrap up, and then he’s bound for a bar near his place, to pick up a little company for the night.

It’s a formula that works well for him.

Theon’s watery eyes are full of righteous indignation, his face twisted with anger, when he comes in, flopping down in one of the rich leather seats placed before Jon’s desk.

Jon sighs, because he can already guess what the problem is. He knows, already, what’s got Theon worked into some sort of conniption fit, and his teeth grind as he realizes he’s about to be on the receiving end of Theon’s latest list of complaints.

Daenerys.

Beautiful, evil, manipulative Daenerys.

Oh, how he hates her. And he enjoys it, God help him. He savors the way he can’t stand her, maybe because the honesty he craves is never more pure than when he’s doing everything he can to ruin her day.

It’s been three months, and there isn’t a day that goes by that he isn’t plotting some new form of torture for her. It’s a rush, almost orgasmic, the way she trembles with fury. He’s a little worried he’s becoming addicted to it, but there is no greater pleasure for him, currently, than to knock that snotty, diabolical asshole down a few pegs.

The true reward, what keeps the game going, is that Daenerys, that soul-stealing succubus no doubt birthed, fully formed, in the bowels of Hell, gives back as good as she gets. And objectively, if he removes himself from the situation, he appreciates her bloodthirsty nature.

If it weren’t one of his main life goals, right now, to destroy her, he thinks they would be kindred spirits.

“I hate that bitch, Jon. I can’t fucking take another day of this, I fucking mean it!” Theon is up, now, and pacing, and Jon clicks his mouse, the screensaver he uses, himself in front of his latest vehicle, disappears.

“Then quit.” He’s really reached the end of his rope when it comes to this. Theon never fights back. Jon thinks maybe he isn’t sure how. He’s a little disgusted by the man’s submission.

A woman like Daenerys needs to be taken, head-on, and given no quarter.

Idly, though, as he clicks open a spreadsheet, he thinks he wouldn’t turn down taking her from behind, either. The thought makes him smile. She’d have to be gagged, probably, maybe blindfolded, too, but he could make it work.

His cock doesn’t care one bit that she is the bride of Satan. It would jump at the chance to fuck her, just once, to make that cocky, smug princess beg for more.

So, maybe no gag, he amends, as Theon gapes at him for daring to suggest what the man has already done. He gives up everytime he just takes one of Daenerys’s insults, but he’s also not that bright, really, isn’t quick on his feet.

It’s probably also why Theon will never close the kinds of deals Jon does. He’s just not made for the big leagues.

“I’m not going to fucking quit. She should quit. Do us all a favor.”

Jon snorts, and opens his email, needing to get one last message off before he closes up shop for the night. “Fat chance, buddy. I don’t think she knows the meaning of the word.” She is relentless, he’ll give her that. He types a few lines, then pauses, wondering why Theon is still there. “So, what did she do this time?”

“Snaked one of my clients.” Theon groans, and it’s more than a little pathetic. “So I went and confronted her about it, she laughed in my face, and told me to--”

He pauses, and Jon leans forward, interested, because she really does have a poisonous little tongue. “She said?”

Grudgingly, the thin man continues. “She told me to suck her lady balls. In front of everyone.”

He doesn’t know what he expected, and he isn’t surprised, but he laughs all the same, because of course she did. Theon looks more than a little offended, and Jon swipes a hand down his face, wondering why he took this job at all, when it was going to force him to be nice when he really didn’t feel like it.

“You want my advice?” Theon nods, quickly, desperately. “Nut up, or shut up. And avoid her, completely. You can’t hold your own against her.”

That isn’t what he wants to hear, clearly, but it’s the truth, and Jon is nothing if not honest.

“You’re a real dick sometimes, Jon,” Theon spits, and Jon just shrugs and returns his attention to his email.

“Get out of my office, Theon,” he says dryly, and sighs again, happily, when the door closes.

Tonight, he thinks, he’ll pick a blonde.

\-----------

He stares at himself in the mirror of his hotel room, and wonders if he’s made an enormous mistake.

Daenerys Targaryen, her Satanic Majesty, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, is the best fuck he’s ever had. He isn’t sure it’s all that shocking, in hindsight; She’s intense, at the best of times, but fucking hells. Even with a condom to dull things down a bit it’s the most fun he’s had naked in awhile, which is really saying something.

He is relieved that she ordered him from her room, is blissful that she hadn’t want to fucking spoon or some other touchy-feely bullshit, but he thinks there’s the possibility that this could become a problem.

Jon opens his laptop, attaches his presentation in an email to her, doesn’t even both writing anything in the body of the message. He doesn’t have anything to say to her.

And he’s not going to think about any future ramifications. They fucked. So what?

He’s got a deal to close tomorrow, and now that he’s had her, maybe his cock will move the fuck on.

God, he hates that bitch, but she’s a hell of a lay. That’s the honest truth, and Jon is nothing if not honest.

———

Jon is determined not to let his enjoyment of her admittedly flawless body change things. They made the sale, sure, and for some extremely fucked up reason they worked great together in front of their prospect, but still - Daenerys Targaryen is the person he hates the most in the entire world.

Two weeks after they fuck for the second time, and land an even bigger commission, she’s still as spiteful and hostile as ever, and he breathes easy, because all is right in the world.

They’ve progressed from simple sabotage to more elaborate maneuvers, and the part of him that isn’t wholly disgusted by her machinations respects her ingenuity.

He’s hurriedly getting ready in his private bathroom, ready to swap his athletic shoes out for his immensely expensive dress loafers, the ones he keeps tucked away in his credenza.

His shoes, he quickly discovers, are gone.

Now, the real possibility might exist, he knows, that he simply moved them.

But where they used to live, there now sits a note, and half his brain is cursing a blue streak as the other half (and his cock) takes a sick sort of pleasure in the way she seems just as obsessed with him as he is with her.

‘ _Finders Keepers, fuck face_!’ He crumples the note in his hand, his lips twisting in a sour smile.

He’s half-hard as he grits his teeth and stalks to her office, only to find her assistant Shireen wide-eyed and slightly trembling when she spies him coming.

“She’s not in, Mr. Snow,” the young woman proclaims in a shaky voice, but Jon ignores her, pushing open the door to she-devil’s office, only to find it is, in fact, empty.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He knows what she’s doing, knows full well that the client he was due to meet in a few hours is one he took from her. 

She wants him to lose his temper, he knows. From the corner of his eye he sees Shireen lingering in the doorway.

She points to the phone on the desk, then looks back to Jon. “A call for you, sir.”

He cuts suspicious eyes between the girl and the handset, tempted to simply return to his office and get back to work. 

Jon truly doesn’t care all that much about the client. He knows Daenerys will turn on the charm she keeps buried deep, bat those thick dark lashes, no doubt she’ll flash a nice healthy peek or two at the smooth skin of her thighs, the rounded swells of her tits.

She’s shameless, and like him, she will do anything, ANYTHING, for the rush that comes from closing a big deal, that adrenaline high something of a shared addiction between them.

He presses the flashing button and takes the call, and he just catches the amused smirk that flashes across Shireen’s face as he motions for her to shut the fucking door.

Jon doesn’t bother asking who is on the other end of the line.

“You fucking bitch,” he seethes, far more strongly than he means it, because this is what they have become. This is what they do. 

For such a soul-sucking monster, Daenerys Targaryen has a beautiful laugh. “Misplace something?”

He is glaring at the door, sitting down hard in her desk chair, even as he considers unbuckling his belt and unzipping his slacks.

She drives him absolutely crazy, in a way that keeps catching him off-guard. She is captivating in her ferocity, mesmerizing in her elegant savagery. She is truly an artist, he thinks, even as he nearly growls his response.

“Surely you understand there will be repercussions, Daenerys.” He is already pondering the ways in which he will retaliate, weighing the options, wondering exactly how far he’s willing to invest himself in this twisted little game they play.

There is silence, for several long moments, except for the road noise as she drives. “And why, Jon Snow, would I give a single shit about that?”

She’s trying to sound cool and disinterested, and she almost pulls it off. Almost.

But he can hear that note of excitement, the daring, the challenge just underneath. 

He knows because he feels it, too, that tingling anticipation that has become a familiar companion to his deep and abiding dislike of her. It is a battle between then, raging ever forward, each altercation just a skirmish in a greater war. 

Jon is starting to enjoy this, far too much. But he’s in too deep to stop right now.

“Be seeing you, Daenerys,” he says without inflection, and disconnects the call. He sits in her desk chair for a few more moments, his index finger tapping against his lip softly as he lets his eyes roam.

She does have excellent taste, her office a marvel of the clean aesthetics he favors most. His gaze drops to the center drawer of her desk, the rich sheen of the polished wood cool under his palm as he pulls the drawer open, curious.

It’s neatly organized, not that he expects anything less. That woman is wound tighter than a tick, as his Uncle used to say, and she is nothing if not meticulous. There is everything he would think to find, various office supplies of all sorts, but in the very back he makes two interesting discoveries.

The first is a tidy bundle of red pens, the gel kind that he prefers, that he has been unable to find for months. His assistant, Satin, had ordered a box just for Jon and then poof, they were gone.

The second item he finds much more intriguing; it is a letter opener, that much he discerns right away, but it is much more than that. The handle is worn from use, the gold sheen smudged and smeared with time, but it is the design that snares his attention most fully, that makes a wry smile cross his lips.

Does she know what they call her? 

_The Dragon Queen._

She must, Jon thinks, as he studied the snarling dragon, each eye set with a small ruby, the mouth open as if breathing fire but instead giving rise to the thin blade of the opener.

He rocks back in the chair, pens forgotten, and examines it in the light.

_This ought to do it,_ he thinks, and tucks it away in the interior pocket of his suit jacket, careful to mind the lining.

He grins and stands, very pleased with his discovery and the potential for even greater mayhem, but lets the expression slide away as he exits the Dragon Queen’s office, Shireen waiting for him as he crosses the threshold.

“Sir?” Her nervous air irritates him, and he wonders how Daenerys puts up with the girl. “Miss Targaryen asked me to give you this.”

She pulls a mid-size box from behind her small desk, and thrusts it towards him.

Jon takes it but makes no move to open it. He knows, as he gives it a shake, that his shoes are inside. He glares at Shireen and frowns.

“Did she now?” He eyes the girl carefully, wonders why she’s so damned jumpy, until he spies the sticky note in her hand.

“She also said,” here the girl’s voice falters, unsure, but she seems to find some resolve quickly enough. She begins again, not daring to meet Jon’s eyes. “She also said,” the girl paused again, eyes shifting uncomfortably, “that next time you can jam them up your asshole for being such an insufferable prick.” Her words escaped in a panicked rush, Shireen’s face bright red as she shared Daenerys’s instructions.

“I see,” Jon answers coolly, the urge to laugh nearly unbearable. Her insults have seemed a bit empty since he’s been balls deep in her, but perhaps it’s just his imagination. 

He remembers the pilfered item tucked into his jacket pocket then, and gives the girl a disarming smile.

Jon saunters back to his office with a little wave, and finally lets a chuckle escape.

An idea has occurred to him, one that seems perfect suited to his appetites.

He calls Satin in, shuts the door behind them both, his assistant seating himself and looking at Jon curiously. Flicking a speck of dust from his slacks, Satin frowns in distaste. “I assume it was Miss Targaryen, as usual,” he says, his eyes landing on the box containing Jon’s shoes.

“Naturally,” Jon says evenly. He sits, swivels and stares out at the bright sky for a few moments, before turning back to meet the young man’s eyes. “How much did she pay you to let her in?”

The main reason Jon likes Satin’s work is that he is as brutally honest as Jon is. He does not lie, sees no point in it, and is occasionally more petty than Jon could ever wish to be. He smiles brightly, unfazed at the question. “Five hundred bucks, boss.” He shrugs, then leans forward. “Rest assured I bartered her there.”

Jon chuckles. He wonders how much Satin really knows, doubts he cares all that much besides using it to feed the rumor mills that fuels this office, much like most others he has worked in. “There’s something I need you to do for me. And if she asks, and offers you money again, rest assured I’ll pay you double to keep this little secret between us.” He cocks his head, eyes narrowing as he studies Satin, whose gaze has sharpened with interest. “Deal?”

Satin nods quickly. “Deal.”

Jon withdraws the stolen letter opener and displays it grandly before handing it over. “Hide this. You never saw it. You don’t know what it is or who it belongs to. Do nothing with it until I tell you otherwise.”

Satin smiles slowly, as he takes the item, the knowing glint in his eye making Jon think he knows more than Jon would prefer, but there’s nothing to be done for it at this point.

“You got it, Boss.”

———-

**  
  
**

Satin ends up helping Jon in one other battle in the endless war that rages between himself and Daenerys; He puts Jon in contact with a gentleman named Edd in the IT Department, one who hates Daenerys with every fiber of his being. Jon isn’t entirely sure of the root cause, save for some vague references to everyone’s favorite Hellbeast making snide comments about his childrens’ looks.

In her defense, when he sees the man and his sallow face and thin build, his wiry greasy hair and yellow, stained teeth, he can see where she’s coming from. But he puts on an understanding face, lets the man vent his hatred, because he needs access and discretion.

“Mr. Tollett, as you know, Daenerys and I have a bit of a,” Jon pauses, stares into space for a moment, milking the silence, “rivalry between us.”

Edd grins. “Everyone knows that.”

Jon lets out a shallow breath, trying his best to look hopeless, frustrated even. “If I’m going to knock her down a peg, I need a favor.”

His eyes narrowing with delight, the man leans closer, lowering his voice. “Just tell me what you need.”

\----------

Jon whistles as he drives home, feeling wonderfully merry. He orders takeout, spends an hour working out, and has just showered off when his phone begins to play a telltale ringtone. When he picks it up, his brows raise, because she isn’t just calling, she’s requesting a video call, and the trepidation mingled with arousal that courses through him is exhilarating. 

He thumbs at the button, his eyes widening before he can stop them when he sees her there, clearly in her bathtub, bubbles up to her shoulders, her silver hair pinned up.

She looks furious, and it’s a truly sinful combination.

“Shouldn’t you be crawling into your coffin for the night, Daenerys?” He halts himself, grinning. “Oh, wait, maybe you’re just crawling out of it.”

She is absolutely livid. “What did you do to my fucking passwords, Jon?”

With a look of feigned innocence, he crosses the room, phone in hand, and grabs his remote, clicking on his television. “My goodness, perhaps you’ve been hacked. What a tragedy. Cyber crime is a real threat these days, you know.”

“I’m locked out of the company network, my email, and my PDA, you stupid asshole!” Her voice is rising, and God, he just wants to record this, so he can play it again later. The only time he can bear her voice is when she is shrieking in agony.

He winces internally. That’s not entirely true, and he has to remain honest in this endeavor. She sounds amazing when she comes.

“Hmmmm.” He hums as though he is curious, then scowls at her. “Have you considered calling IT instead of wasting my fucking time? I’m not your babysitter.”

“TELL ME WHAT YOU CHANGED MY FUCKING PASSWORDS TO!”

Yeah, he thinks with a sigh, he’s probably gonna masturbate to this later. She’s too furious for him to resist, her skin flushed and red, bubbles dipping lower and showing him small, glancing peeks of the upper curves of her tits as she shifts angrily in the water. It’s precisely why she called him from the tub, he knows. It’s all part of this sick little game.

He might as well enjoy it.

He pulls a scandalized face, and clucks his tongue, scolding her. “Now, now, Daenerys. You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.”

He can see her trembling, as she tries to collect herself, both of them knowing he’s already won, as her temper has gotten the better of her. “Tell me what my passwords are, Jon,” she says, gritting her teeth and glaring at him, barely-restrained.

Jon smiles blandly and relaxes against the couch cushions, pretending that what’s happening on his television screen is more interesting. “Say please,” he says, bored.

The look of pure crystalline hatred that crosses her elegant, delicate features has him rock-hard. “No.”

Jon shrugs, and moves to disconnect the call. “Okay, have a good night.”

“Stop!” He pauses, blood pumping with yet another victory as she continues in the most spite-filled voice he’s ever heard. “Please.”

Jon raises a brow and studies her, storing up the image of her right now, in this very moment, absolutely glorious in her rage. He’ll certainly be using it later. “I don’t think you mean it,” he replies, unconvinced, and shrugs. “But we both know I won, here, so I’ll help you out. I wanted to make it something easy for you to remember, something that I’m sure you think about everyday. The best passwords are like that, you know.” With a cocky smile, he chuckles. “Try ‘jonsnowsmassivecock’, that ought to do it. Oh, but it’s all lower case, no punctuation. And please,” he says with false sincerity, as she begins to sputter with renewed anger, “have a lovely, lovely night Daenerys.”

  
He disconnects the call, and changes the channel to a basketball game, content.

\-----------

Tyrion sends them to Dorne the following month, and save for a few little pranks, he’s been too busy to really do battle with Daenerys. It’s been the same for her, he knows, with the quarter ending. He wonders if she changed her password to something else, or if she’s kept it.

He isn’t going to bother asking, though.

They’re checking into the hotel when the clerk at the front desk glances up from Jon’s reservation. “Oh, Mr. Snow,” he says smoothly, reaching beneath the counter, “This was just delivered for you.”

He can feel Daenerys watching, knows from Satin’s telltale writing on the label that it’s exactly what he’s asked for, and his blood begins to pump harder with anticipation. “Excellent, thank you,” he says mildly, and slides the small package under his arm, signing his check-in paperwork and palming the folio with his room key.

They enter the elevator, and he counts down with pinpoint precision the moment she lets her curiosity get the better of her.

“What’s in the box?”

He feigns cool disinterest. He knows she has inquired surreptitiously around the office about the loss of her letter opener, has heard from Satin that she nearly made poor Shireen cry over it. “A wooden stake, silver bullets, garlic, holy water.” He bares his teeth in a false smile. “Thought I’d cover my bases, being forced to travel with you again.”

She just snorts and rolls her eyes, then returns her gaze to the floor indicator above the elevator doors as they approach their floor. When the metal doors part, she tugs at her rolling bag and gives him a smirk. “Good luck with the stake. For that to work you’d have to drive it through my heart, and sadly,” she clucks her tongue mockingly, “I don’t have one.” She’s three doors down from him, and gives him a sad little pout. “Maybe next time, eh?”

He says nothing, ignores her as he lets himself into his room.

Jon throws the lock, and stows his bag in the closet, sitting on the bed and carefully opening the box. There, wrapped in bubble wrap, sits the letter opener, and he grasps it, turning it over in his hand with a satisfied smile that only drops away when he spies the brightly colored Post-It note Satin has included.

“Black Widows kill their mates after they fuck, Boss. Keep that in mind.”

He laughs, and sets his prize aside, and begins to unpack, his mind straying and wondering what her reaction will be, at what he has planned for her.

Jon is a little worried at how eager he is to find out.

\----------

They eat together in the dining room downstairs, trading barbs interspersed with actual strategy on how to sway the rather stubborn Oberyn Martell into signing a multi-year deal the following morning.

Finally, unable to bear another minute in her company that requires anything but fucking her, he tosses his napkin on the table. “Enough foreplay, Satan.”

She sneers, then wipes delicately at the corners of her mouth, peering at him with disdain. “Wow, no wonder you’re so eager, Snow. You must get exactly zero pussy with those lines. I suppose another pity fuck is in order, then?”

Jon stands, and rolls his eyes. “Oh, Daenerys, how you only wish that were true.” He makes to walk by her, pausing and casually calling over his shoulder to her as he gives her one last taunting look back. “But I bet you’d like to know what was in that box.”

He doesn’t look back, after that, just takes a calm, leisurely ride in the lift back to his room. He clicks on the bedside lamp, and loosens his tie, rummaging through the minibar and mixing himself a drink as he waits.

She’ll show herself eventually, he knows.

She can’t resist this anymore than he can, and that knowledge is the only thing that allows him to continue to do this. HIs rule about never fucking the same woman twice has been broken when it comes to Daenerys, the loophole being that it means absolutely nothing, in the grand scheme of things.

That she is so enjoyable sexually may be her only redeeming quality.

He downs one drink and makes another, and finally, a brisk knock sounds at the door.

He smiles to himself and takes his sweet time opening it, making sure he looks faintly disinterested when he throws the door open.

“I’m sorry, this room doesn’t need maid service,” he says, leaning against the open door, eyeing the curves of her body through the tight cotton t-shirt and sleep shorts she has on. It’s an interesting choice, he thinks, wondering who she’s trying to fool. She’s going for low effort but he can see that she’s taken the time to take her hair down out of those ridiculous braided styles she favors, brushed it out until she’s created a soft, silver fall of waves halfway down her back.

She looks so sweet, so innocent, when she is anything but. She also isn’t wearing a bra, and she crosses her arms across her chest, glaring at him as he leaves her standing out in the hall.

“I can always go back to my room, asshole.” She cocks a hip to the side, planting her hand on it, the finger of her other hand poking him in the chest. “In fact, maybe I should. God knows the company would be better.”

With a put-upon sigh, he moves, shifting aside so she can enter his room, watching as her eyes immediately begin to search for the box he’d brought up. He follows behind her, close, too close from the way her head whips around to check his progress. She comes to a sudden stop and he just barely stops himself from running into her.

The air between them has shifted, changed, growing electric with the hunger that so often simmers just behind their hatred for each other.

Sometimes, in moments like this, Jon realizes he’s never felt more alive.

“Get on the bed,” he orders, sharply, enjoying the way her eyes narrow suspiciously.

A slim brow arches at the instruction. “Why should I?”

Jon laughs silently and retrieves his drink from the small desk against the wall, his eyes never leaving her. “Or go back to your room, Daenerys, and get yourself off ‘til you pass out. Makes no difference to me.”

Something flares to life in her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Jon Snow.” She takes a delicate sniff, haughty as she raises her chin. “One of the many, many things you’re dreadful at, but then, you already knew that.”

He just stares at her, undaunted, and finally she relents, with another cross look. Crawling onto the bed, on all fours now, she turns her head to eye him expectantly. “Well?”

Jon holds his tongue, circling slowly around all three sides of the bed, taking in the view. And she notices, of course, arches her back tellingly, elbows folding as she thrusts her ass farther into the air. It’s a compelling position for him. There is certainly a thrill to be found in taking her that way, he already knows this. He rounds the end of the bed, and gives a resounding smack to the right side of her ass. When she groans at the contact he hides a smile.

“Not like that,” he finally gruffs out, his voice rough with the want that’s been haunting him since the last time he was inside her, the desire he can finally let free, now that they’re doing this again. He twirls a finger in the air and takes another swallow, alcohol burning his throat as he gestures. “Turn over,” he instructs her, and she gives him another hard, mulish look, but eventually she obeys.

His eyes are glued to the swells of her breasts as they strain against the thin material of her t-shirt, her nipples already stiff, her breath already coming faster as she watches him set his drink aside and unbuckle his belt.

Jon can tell she is confused, her insufferably beautiful face screwed up, full, rosy lips set in a pout as he comes closer but still doesn’t touch her. He makes her wait, draws out the suspense, because that just makes it all the more exciting. 

She licks her lips as he unzips his trousers and steps out of them, leaving him in just his boxer briefs and dress shirt now, tie still loose around his neck.

Her hands drop to her hips, to the elastic at the waist of her shorts. “No,” he says sharply. “Leave everything on.”

Daenerys pushes up on her elbows. “What in the fuck are you on about?”

He pulls the tie from around his neck and takes it in both hands, holding in in the air between them, watching her reaction as she begins to work out what he wants. “Grab the headboard.”

Jon can see the war raging inside her. She knows, now, exactly what he’s going to do with the tie in his hands if she complies, and that stubborn, domineering streak in her that he both hates and admires is screaming at her not to allow this. It’s fascinating to witness, even more captivating when her jaw sets, and she slowly reaches up, each slender hand grabbing at a thin wooden rail. “Fine,” she says primly, finally. With a skeptical look, she cannot resist another little verbal jab tossed his way. The bed dips as he rests a knee besides her, securing her wrists snugly. “How very predictable. I suppose this is the only way you can get a woman to just lie there and take it?”

He reaches down and pinches her nipple, smirking when she bites her lip, not managing to suppress her needy moan at the contact. She can say what she wants; but her body has given her away each time they’ve done this.

“Not the only way,” he says airily, and leaves her tied there, walking back to the shoddy little hotel desk and reaching in the drawer. “But for you, I suspect, a necessary one. Oh, I meant to ask, have you lost something recently?”

A mad cackle rises in his chest when she finally lays eyes on what he’s stolen from her, his glee dimmed only by the lust that grows with each step he takes back towards her. She struggles for a moment, her face a mask of righteous fury as she looks between him and the object in his hand.

“You fucking thief! How FUCKING DARE YOU?!” Her eyes are murderous, but even as he draws close enough to reach out and touch her, knees that had been pressed together fall apart, an almost involuntary action that makes his cock throb.

“Oh, this? Is it yours?” He dangles the embellished letter opener between his thumb and forefinger, letting it dangle perilously above her chest until he palms it away. “Imagine that. And imagine trying to lecture ME about thievery, you fucking snake.”

She is panting, her pupils wide and dark, nearly obscuring the odd purple of her irises. There is no denying the exotic, singular nature of her beauty, no matter how undeniably awful she is when she opens her mouth.

“Give it back,” she grinds out, her teeth clenched so hard she can barely get the words out. He laughs and she tosses her head, only to still when he shrugs off his shirt and climbs on the bed beside her, now bare except his underwear. She remains clothed, but he will remedy that soon enough.

“Or what?” His merry question isn’t received well. She is almost snarling, snapping her head away when he reaches out to tuck a hand beneath her jaw.

A deadly calm overtakes her. “You’ll see,” she finally mutters. There isn’t much she can do about it now, of course, but he has no doubt she will seek retribution later. That’s fine by him; he’d expect nothing less.

It’s why he did it.

“Family heirloom?” He places the letter opener on the small bedside table, one eye of ruby red glinting at him from the carved face of the dragon on the handle. “Or just something you keep around for human sacrifices, whatever it is you get up to in your office?”

She sneers at him, quickly, but then her white, perfect teeth are snagging on her bottom lip as he runs a hand up the smooth, silken length of her leg, starting at her ankle and stopping just below the hem of her shorts. “Maybe I have it around in case I need to take care of dickheads like you.”

There isn’t much emphasis behind her words, her attention as focused as his is on the fingers he is sliding below the fabric to brush the tips against the tender spot where her thigh meets her body. She trembles, a high-pitched, needy sound escaping before she can stifle it, but her eyes still hold a measure of fire when he looks up.

“It looks sharp,” he remarks, withdrawing his hand and rising up on his knees at her side, his eyes wandering as he tries to decide exactly where he will strike first.

He isn’t into pain, exactly, but he is into power, and she is at his mercy, almost fully. It’s a heady thing, something to savor, and he is in no hurry.

She needs to lose the shirt first, he decides, past ready to reacquaint himself with her tits. They’re disturbingly perfect, flawless really, and he nudges her thighs further apart with his knees as he moves between her legs.

He grins down at her wickedly, then takes the sharp, small opener in his left hand, immensely enjoying the way her eyes are wary and growing even darker with lust as he moves the glinting, thin blade closer. He trails it down the cotton of her shirt, between the valley of her breasts, remembering how very much he enjoyed ripping her shirt from her body the first time he had her, how indignant she had become at her ruined clothing.

He thinks he’ll do it again.

“Time for this to go,” he says airly, and fists the fabric in his free hand, pulling it taut and piercing it with the tip of the item he stole from her, smiling even more widely at how smoothly it slices through the fabric. He notices the moment the cool metal touches her skin, the way she stiffens slightly and grows still. “Relax,” he says, and put the letter opener aside again, its noble work done, the fabric now gaping and exposing most of her smooth, flat stomach and the rounded curves of her breasts, only held together now by the thicker material of the collar.

With both hands, he pulls, grunting, and rips her shirt the rest of the way, finally satisfied when both sides fall away, and he can take his time to enjoy the view.

“I’m not going to actually hurt you, Daenerys.” He smirks down at her, as she scowls up at him. “Unless you ask me nicely.”

She seems unimpressed, trying to remain unaffected, even as her breath comes even faster. He can see the beat of her pulse in her neck, his eyes then chasing her tongue as it comes out to wet her lips. “Not likely,” she chides.

He palms her right breast, then, molding the shape of it in his palm, before letting his thumb flick over her stiff nipple. She can pretend all she likes, but her body has given her away every time.

“I bet you’re fucking soaked, aren’t you?”

She groans, sounding aggravated, then rolls her hips upward, her thighs slamming shut against him where he is kneeling between them. Jon chuckles and raises a finger in the air, shaking his head.

“Stop that or I’ll tie your legs down, too.”

Her eyes flash, dangerously, and he makes a mental note to save that idea for another time, games for another day. Right now, he has one mission.

She will beg him, before he gives her what she wants.

“Get on with it. I don’t have all night.” It’s getting harder to take her facade of anger seriously when she’s arching her back like that, breasts quivering slightly as she begins to shift restlessly on the bed.

He shakes his head again, thrilled with the stony look she gives him in response. “No,” he murmurs, both hands now on her tits, cupping and weighing them before beginning a torturously slow teasing of her nipples, “I don’t think I will.”

She gasps, eyes slamming shut from his provocative assault of each rosy peak, and he’s past ready to taste her flesh again, to use his mouth to drive her to the point of madness, but not quite yet. She writhes against the comforter, arms stretched and held captive above her head, and he shifts forward, hands still working their teasing magic, until his lips are just above hers. “I’m not getting you off until you beg me, Daenerys.”

Her head lifts, quickly, sharp teeth capturing his bottom lip, and for a moment he thinks she’ll bite down, like the evil bitch she is. But then she suckles, hard, pulling his lip further between hers, and releases.

“If you are expecting me to beg you, you’ll be waiting forever, you dick.”

He doesn’t believe her, in part because her conviction doesn’t reach her eyes. They’re already pleading with him, for more.

But more telling his how she raises her legs to lock her ankles behind his back, and is circling her hips against his still-covered cock, grinding her cunt against him through her shorts, trying to subvert him.

_So selfish_ , he thinks, _so fucking stubborn._

He gives her a feral grin and pushes her legs from him forcefully, shoving them flat against the bed, and withdrawing to stand at the foot of it.

“I think you’re overdressed,” he says thoughtfully, fingers stroking the short, dark hair at his jaw, as though he is observing a piece of art in a gallery, instead of the wicked creature staring daggers at him, wanton and wanting.

He doesn’t leave time for her to respond, leaning forward and dragging her shorts down her hips, taking the scrap of lace that passes for panties along with them. He doesn’t bother to hide his satisfaction at the trail of wetness he sees as he pulls the fabric past her ankles and down her body.

She’s either cold, he realizes, or extremely turned-on, perhaps both, as he can see the gooseflesh rising on her skin. But then he’s too distracted by the sight of her cunt, pink and flushed and glistening with the ultimate proof that no matter what she says, she wants this, wants him, past the point of reason.

He slides a fingertip through the wetness he can see in the light of the bedside lamp, brows rising as he glances up to find her watching him, lips parted, her eyes narrow slits. “You’re going to beg me, Daenerys. That much I can promise.”

“Never,” she hisses, but her hips rise as his fingertip travels to her clit, circling slowly. She whines, her brow wrinkled, her face flushing as she continues to hold his stare challengingly.

His lips spread wider as he adds another finger into play, spreading her slickness around, flicking against her clit then slipping down to her tight entrance, just barely dipping his index finger inside her.

“You will,” he hums, and pulls his hand away from her cunt only long enough to shove his boxer briefs down and kick them off the end of the bed. When he sees the way her breath escapes in a loud burst of air, how she unconsciously licks her lips, slowly, at the sight of his cock, he knows something else he wants. And maybe she’s not ready to beg for release, yet, but he has other ways to amuse himself.

He moves up the bed, on his knees, until he’s even with her face, sees the dueling emotions that cross her deceptively lovely face as he wraps a hand around his cock and gives a smooth stroke, his tip tantalizingly close to her lips. He shuffles closer, tapping his cockhead against her plush, full lips purposefully. “Open up,” he taunts, half-wondering if she’ll bite him the moment he’s inside her mouth.

But then her lips part, and the hot, wet haven of her mouth wrings a guttural moan from him, the sensation of her tongue tracing against his hard length making his eyes roll back a little. He gives a slow, easy thrust, briefly considering letting her suck him off, coming on her tits, then sending her on her way.

It would be amusing, yes, but not the satisfaction he craves from her tonight. She hums against his cock, relaxing her throat like an absolute champ, an unexpected gift if he’s being honest. He allows himself the pleasure of several more strokes into her mouth before he pulls back, with no small measure of reluctance.

“That’s a much better use for that poisonous mouth of yours,” he remarks, his cock now glistening with her saliva, and he pumps himself a few times while she watches, a look of intense longing on her face, but she doesn’t respond. “But I’d still rather hear you beg.”

“No,” she says, but it sounds like a plea, and he reaches for the drawer of the bedside table for a condom, sliding it onto his cock quickly and crawling back to his earlier post between her legs.

She’s even wetter now, he notices, her thighs smeared with her arousal. “You liked that, didn’t you? Now, that’s interesting.”

“Would you shut the fuck up already?” She’s so high-pitched and needy, so close to giving him what he wants, and he’s hardly touched her. When he’s imagined this, and he has, several times, he thought she would make this harder.

He leans forward, taking her head in his hands, and kisses her roughly, sucking at her lips and sliding his tongue against hers, a battle of wills that he’s already won, if the way she urges her body up against his is any indication.

When he draws back her lips are even fuller, swollen and red, her eyes glassy and almost crazed. He mouths at the pounding, frantic pulse in her neck, sucking and biting lightly, not enough to mark her, though the thought is tempting.

He keeps moving, his mouth capturing first her left nipple, then her right, teeth teasing and tugging each stiff peak until she is letting out an endless series of moans as he works her. He releases her, his own breathing rough and erratic, now, and locks eyes with her. “Just say please, Daenerys, and I’ll give you what you want.”

“I don’t want anything,” she mutters heatedly, and he smiles against her skin as he laves a wet trail down the trembling skin of her abdomen, dipping his tongue into her navel just to hear her gasp. “And I never say please,” she manages, in a voice that breaks halfway through her lie.

“Yes, you do,” he murmurs against her inner thigh, then nips at her skin sharply. “And you will.”

Jon delivers a firm lick against her swollen clit, her heady cry making his cock throb relentlessly. He sets to work, suckling the small bud between his lips gently, his tongue tracing the shape of her, dipping into her hot center before dragging back up, and he knows it’s not enough, knows with the way she is keening mindlessly and struggling against him that she wants more.

“Beg me, Daenerys,” he urges, and blows a stream of air against her, relishing the sob she releases.

“No!” Her head is whipping back and forth against the pillow, he sees, as he looks up her body, and he can see she’s almost there, about to break and give him what he wants, so that she can get what she wants.

“Yes,” he orders roughly, then seals his mouth against her, his tongue flicking rapidly against her clit as she bucks wildly into his face. He can feel the way her body is tensing, and he slides two fingers inside her, knowing, by now, what it takes to make her come, seeking her most sensitive spots, the ones that will leave her a trembling mess.

She is releasing breathy little cries, so close he can feel her walls tightening tellingly around his fingers, then he stops, pulling away and sitting on his knees again, his cock bobbing insistently as he scowls down at her.

“Jon,” she cries, and finally, she’s ready. He can hear the plaintive wail she wants to free, the desperate edge in her voice as she calls him name. “Fuck! Fine! Please!”

The rush of victory that surges through him is almost as good as his impending release will be. “Please what?”

She is nearly sobbing with need, but she still levels a steely glare at him, through hooded eyes. He’s certain he’s never seen anything hotter than the image of her, like this, wet and begging for him to give her what she so desperately needs, even if she is the worst person he’s ever met. “I hate you, so fucking much right now,” she wails, and arches enough to slide herself against his thigh. “God, just fuck me! Please! I’m begging you!”

It’s music to his fucking ears, and he isn’t sure he’s ever enjoyed anything more. He grabs for her hip in one hand, taking his cock in the other, lining himself up, steeling himself for what he knows is coming the moment he slides into her.

She’s a bitch, but God, thrusting into her cunt is like a small slice of heaven, and this time is no exception. Her mouth falls open in a wordless scream as he begins to fuck her, hard, fast, eager for his own release, ready to feel her cunt grip and clench around him.

The wet sounds of each stroke into her, the slap of his hips against her, war with the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears as he gives himself over completely to the unmatched pleasure that is fucking the living daylights out of Daenerys Targaryen, and it isn’t long at all until she’s seizing around him, her cunt milking him in waves, her raspy voice crying out his name as she comes.

He isn’t far behind, his spine tingling and balls drawing tight as he feels it sweep over him, that itching, burning urge to keep fucking her and fucking her until the world ends pushing him over the edge. He thrusts into her a few more times as he comes, curses escaping him in a rough, hoarse voice that he hardly recognizes as his own.

They’re both damp and panting, and as she pries her eyelids apart, a few lingering pulse still squeezing at his cock as she recovers, he tries not to think to hard about what he sees there.

This doesn’t mean anything.

It’s just a bit of sport. A good luck charm for a productive meeting tomorrow.

He hates her and she hates him.

It’s with that thought ringing through his mind that he pulls out of her, padding to the bathroom and cleaning himself up briefly before returning to find her staring coldly at him, still bound, on the bed.

“You could’ve let me loose first, fucker.”

Her voice is full of venom and things are back to normal. Jon wants to sigh with relief, but instead he unties her, watches her glare and rub her slightly chafed wrists. She eyes her destroyed shirt with distaste, grimaces, and stalks into his bathroom.

Daenerys returns quickly, her face still flushed and pink, her hair a tousled mess as it spills over the lapels of the white, oversized hotel robe she’s nicked from his bathroom. She grabs her shorts, fishes her keycard from the pocket, and makes for the door. 

“Stop ruining my clothes, you shithead!” It’s the last thing he hears before the door slams shut behind her.

He makes one more drink, climbs into bed, and sleeps like a babe.

The next morning, they close the deal, and as they’re heading for the airport he reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out her letter opener, handing it to her hastily. “You forgot his,” he remarks blandly, then pulls out his phone, checking his email.

She scoffs, and he can feel her eyes on him, but he doesn’t bother looking up. “How am I supposed to get this on the plane, you absolute fuckwad?”

He looks up and gives her a cocky grin, finally, that only incenses her further. “Not my problem.”

\-----------

Several months later, he watches her tail lights as they exit the parking lot, taking another drag from the cigarette she’d offered as he tracks her progress down the sidestreet, until her vehicle is gone from view.

Tonight he has lied to himself. He’s lied to her as well, but that doesn’t matter nearly as much.

He said he didn’t want her pity, but he knows, in his cold, black heart, that it isn’t entirely true.

Ghost had been old, and sick, and on his last legs when Jon had left him with one of the few people he trusted, a trainer named Davos, who had promised to watch over the dog when Jon moved to King’s Landing.

But the loss still stung, and since he had given the go-ahead hours before to go ahead and put the rotten old cur out of his misery he has been miserable.

Then Daenerys had to go put her hand on his knee and say she was sorry and actually sound like she meant it, and it was too much.

It makes him feel pathetic, how much he wants to be around her now, especially when it is comfort that he wants, not sex.

He is in unfamiliar territory, and he doesn’t know what to do, because he doesn’t know how he feels about her anymore.

He still hates her, but there is more there, beneath the surface, and though he strives for honesty he doesn’t think he can face those things yet.

He stubs out his cigarette, right next to where she had, and heads to his car, his head a mess, his heart confused.

\----------

They continue on, fighting and fucking, and he finds it suits him, finds it easy to shut off everything but the animal inside him when he’s in one hotel room or another with her. But one day, it hits him, hard and fast, the unadulterated truth he’s been hiding from himself.

They are sitting in the conference room, in an endless sales meeting, and Theon is whining incessantly about the new terms Tyrion is adding to their contracts, when Daenerys has finally had enough.

“God, Theon, do you ever get tired of embarrassing yourself?” Each word cuts like a knife, and Jon can see the man flinch as Daenerys pushes even harder. “Stop whining and let the adults talk for once.”

She doesn’t even stop for breath, just smoothly turns to Tyrion and begins to haggle about the percentage change he’s proposing on their commissions, though Theon is on the verge of tears.

Jon thinks he might be sick.

It hits him like a hammer blow, because she’s taken the words right out of his mouth, and he’s in FUCKING LOVE with Daenerys Targaryen. She’s a foul-tempered, conniving bitch from hell, and there isn’t a day that’s gone by that he hasn’t prayed she’ll stumble into traffic. But as he stares at her profile, numb with shock, he realizes it doesn’t matter, knows he’s just as bad as she is, if not worse. Maybe that’s why.

It really fucking sucks because he didn’t think he was actually capable of this, and he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel, and he stands quickly and excuses himself to escape to the relative solitude of the second floor men’s room.

He splashes his face with cold water, gathering a handful of paper towels, and forces himself to meet his own gaze in the mirror.

“You stupid fuck,” he says to the man he sees there. “What have you done?”

He can’t lie to himself, not for long, but he knows he can never, ever let her find this out. Things are fine just like they are. He doesn’t need more from her.

Love is a fool’s game. He doesn’t want it. He never has.

But that’s a lie, too.

“What am I supposed to do about this?” He whispers the question into the silence, and the man in the mirror doesn’t have an answer for him.

He’s fucked, he supposes, as he straightens and steels his spine, pushes it all down, deep down, where he doesn’t have to deal with it right now.

He marches down the hall, takes his seat beside her, sees her little sneer as she examines him. “Couldn’t wait ‘til the end of the meeting? I swear, some people have no self-control.”

He gives her the finger and pages back through the paperwork before him, intent on ignoring her for as long as he can. Though he cannot stand admitting it, he has become hopelessly addicted to this twisted thing that has grown between them, is honest enough to admit she has become the thing he cannot live without.

He hates her, but he loves her, and that is the truth.

And maybe she’ll be the death of him at some point, will ruin him completely in every way a woman can ruin a man, but as he spares a long, lingering look at the exquisite perfection of her, as she lectures Tyrion once more, he gives a small little chuckle.

She might be the end of him, but what a way to fucking go.

**  
  
  
**


End file.
